Thursday, January 23, 2014

“She had a weakness for writers…and I was never that good to words anyway…”

Welcome my love to another spin.  This Universe, I, WE, need another one, one another.  We keep it all spinning, fix and repair rusty and antiquated machinations when all hope seems lost.  We trudge through deep snow and springs mud, and thick summers foreign fields.  It is what we do.  It ain’t easy. But Gosh Darn it, it is what we do.

I have kept, tried to keep, this cold inside me, keep you from the terror of the fridged  evil wind that rolls in off the sound out back that freezes pipes and stalls our truck and holds her in place when she just wants to run, warm up and go…run…to a place where scared little old men boys with great heavy minds and broken hands can sit and rest under blankets of orange and yellow and umber leaves, and not fear the wind, but just listen to its song through the branches strong, that sway and groan, and sometimes ache, but never topple.

We cannot be blown over.

We bend.
We creak.
We groan.
And open arms to the shit heavy wind, the maelstrom, that beats us again,
And again
And again,

And we lean in.

What else can we do?


I know why and so do you,
But we will never speak of it.
What a great gift.

It’s cold here in our lighthouse tonight.
A cold that is not fair or understandable,
But a cold that is ours to hold and embrace, and make our own.

It’s so stoopid fucking cold.
And just when you think it might get better,
The wind rises up, changes direction,
And tears in from the south,
And makes the cold even colder.

The even ender edge of the world.

Our even ender edge of the world.

And that is just nicey nice. 

It is fifty-eight degrees in our lighthouse
And the heat is going full blast.
But it does not
 seem to make a difference anyway.
The ice has taken over our cove, our little bay.

It is cold here without you.

But the idea of you keeps me warm.

As I am writing this,
I keep getting up and checking on the venison stew,
That slowly cooks and simmers in our silly little kitchen.
The heat from the stove keeps the alcove warm.
If you open the window just enough,
you can hear the ice crackle on the black water
as it fights to form out back
between the struggle of the tide and wind.

And as I stand and stir the game,
The wind out back howls,
And screams,
And beats against our windows and door.

It seems to want in.
But what the fuck here inside is so much better,
That it wants to beat down our walls,
blow through and in,
and sit upon our sofa and make itself at home?
Let’s ask the wind and cold to leave us alone for a while.

We don’t need the wind and cold
and the Universe,
to tell us it is time to snuggle up,
Curl together,
We don’t need the wind and cold
and the Universe,
to nudge us together.


Let’s ask the wind and cold,
and the Universe,
to leave us alone for a while.

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